We Danced Once
by hikomokushi
Summary: He cannot sew a tattered seam but he can suture a bleeding wound. Delena


**Title:** We Danced Once.  
**Author: **Hiko Mokushi / **plural_entity**  
**Pairing: **Damon Salvatore/Elena Gilbert.  
**Rating:** k+.  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Vampire Diaries._  
**Warning: **Spoilers up until the latest episode, 1x19—specifically takes place in the time between 1x19 and 1x90.  
**Summary: **He cannot sew a tattered seam but he can suture a bleeding wound. [Delena].

**Author Notes:** I love Ian Somerhalder. I'll admit that Stelena had its appeal for the while, but I've liked Damon merely as a character a lot more than Stefan since the very beginning. I didn't start looking at Delena as a couple until 1x11. I climbed aboard the SS Delena officially after 1x15 and have been rooting for everybody's little neck-biter ever since. (:

****

**

* * *

**

_The capacity for passion is both cruel and divine.  
_George Sand (1804-1876)  
_Intimate Journal_; 1834

* * *

The best part about vervain poisoning is the first five hours, in which you are, though pretty much paralyzed, completely and blissfully incoherent—almost and sometimes unconscious. Once awake, the following three are the exact opposite: sensitive, high-strung, and not just cognizant, but alert. Acutely aware of everything around you, and thirsty—parched, scorching, and infinitely thirsty. If you can stand it to the ninth hour, your body slowly succumbs to a stupor, a hazy awareness of your surroundings but practically numb to everything except the dull roar of the thirst. The ninth hour is the home stretch, is a gift from a god whom your very existence defies. That is, if you can get past the three hours of screaming.

After all, he would know.

* * *

Damon insists she leave the basement.

He tries everything to persuade her, even going so far as to promise he would be a good boy, not feed on any innocent bystanders, or maim, murder or sleep with any more of her actual and potential family members (as he apparently has a habit of doing.)

She would have none of it. Fleetingly, he wonders if she would have sat outside the door for _him_ when he was locked inside. He believes he knows the answer, but from this point on he will make no suppositions, no assumptions. The woman beside him is mystique wrapped in cotton candy muscles and cellophane skin.

"You can leave if you like," she says without looking at him, as they approach the end of Stefan's second hour.

He does not reply. He wouldn't be sitting here if not for her, and he will only continue because of her. He's revisiting memories in the dank underground of the house, ones he never wished to remember even in his worst nightmares, but he'll do it only for her—because she's resurfacing emotions he never knew he could feel again. Because she's making his dead body feel real again and making his heart of stone pulse and ache as though it were alive and beating.

Because he knows what comes next.

He can remember the taste of his own sweat and tears, how after only thirty minutes, his raw throat could no longer utter a full scream, but merely rasp out a pathetic sound, halfway between sob and groan. There are markings on the damp gray walls inside from where his fingernails had scraped against stone and if he remembers correctly, the left corner nearest the door still bears the coppery stain from where he'd vomited blood.

Elena Gilbert is not a woman who can handle screaming, suffering; she cannot handle the breaking of body and mind. Elena Gilbert will bend, wilt, and shatter underneath hours six, seven and eight and he's pretty sure that might break him anyway.

Whatever her feelings, whatever her bloodline, Elena Gilbert is not Katherine Piece; a fact he has come to know all too well.

* * *

Sometime in the third, he leaves to retrieve a blanket, a pillow and a bottle of water for her—a blood packet for himself, one of few still left in the house. Brother Dearest was no good at hiding his addiction. Like a junky, he hid his used containers everywhere—from cupboards to drawers to under his mattress.

This time, however, Damon sits against her wall and lounges beside her, their shoulders and knees brushing slightly. When she does not move away, he allows himself this little peace.

Elena barely touches the water, but sort of thanks him for the blanket—a weary glance out of the corner of her eye, the tremble of her lower lip, the stoop of her shoulder. He has become a master of body language, and her actions speak louder than any words she could utter. She curls the blanket around her shoulders, hunkers down against the wall. The fraying corner tickles where it touches his arm, but not in a giggly way. The pillow acts as something to worry and toy with; clutching it in her lap like one would a doll.

He wishes for something to say, something that could comfort her. He does not know what could soothe her, if anything could.

* * *

By the fourth hour, he stops asking her to leave all together.

A whimper of something from the cage has her on her feet, clutching the bars. He joins her only once to allow her to step inside the lion's den, but only once. He tries but cannot ignore the tears that smooth paths down her cheeks. He keeps his mouth quirked at the corner, but only to keep the tension. His lips want to kiss her seeping eyes and swollen lips. She pouts like Katherine, and his arms ache to hold her.

Damon has never been more aware of his attraction.

His brother's name falls from her lips, _"Stefan, Stefan, Stefan,"_ like a broken prayer, her voice strong but weary. Fragile like a flower that blooms only in the coldest of nights. He tries to recall how long it could be since she's slept. It does not matter, for she kneels at Stefan's side and wipes his brow with a towel already soaked in his sweat, whispers to him as though she spoke a language his poisoned mind could fathom. She rubs his shoulder. Kisses his forehead. Holds his hand. But worst of all, Elena _hums_.

If there is one thing about Katherine he misses the most, he misses the lilting lullabies that had once upon a time sung him to sleep.

She has achieved sainthood with the forgiveness dripping from her every pore, and he once again wonders how she could possibly be related to Katherine. He knows Pierce women, and they do not forget and never forgive. Watching her makes him sick. Damon is sure that his heart has shriveled into nothing, turned him into the black, soulless being everyone always said he'd been. For one-hundred-forty-five years he had always been second best, and for once, he is sick of it.

He wishes he could pull himself away.

But when Elena's hand lingers too long on his brother's face, the area around Stefan's eyes darkens reflexively, his eyes spider-vein red as he stares into her eyes, mouth agog. Without thinking, Damon snatches her hand away. He can feel the tears where his hand grasps her wrist, but she does not try to pull away.

_"I love you, Stefan,"_ she whispers like her life depends on it.

His fingers flex tighter about her wrist because _his_ life depends on it.

Stefan's eyes close and he turns away. Elena lets out a choked sob, hand over her mouth. Damon stares at his placid little brother, because he shouldn't be able to move his head right now. At least not unless his time is running out. A glance at his watch assures them they've just entered the fifth hour and he's got maybe forty minutes before he bodily removes Elena from this hall.

"He's out of it, he doesn't even know who you are right now," he whisperingly lies finally. He is not sure she understands and repeats once more before she allows him to lift her to her feet. He returns her to her spot and makes sure she is settled before he locks the door.

When he sits at her side, she shudders so violently he takes her shoulders in his hands to calm her.

When Damon stares into her doe eyes, he is not reminded of Katherine. He remembers a young woman in a dress, whose name he did not know but whose blood was heaven and hell all wrapped into one. A little lost waif caught in the strands of a hunter's net and who was sacrificed so that he might live. He remembers he once did not want to drink that woman and he once wanted to devour Elena Gilbert.

* * *

He refuses to contemplate how times have changed, and Stefan's loud announcement of hour six has him second-guessing which is more gut-wrenching: the sound of his brother's screams or the sobs of the incredibly breakable woman he holds between his bone-crushing hands.

_"I did this to him!"_ is the new mantra. _"This is my fault!"_

Damon shushes her and wraps an arm about her middle. She splays head-first across his lap, cheek pressing to his chest and arms clenching to her breast. He cannot sew a tattered seam but he can suture a bleeding wound. He caresses her cheek and rubs her back and smoothes her hair to hold her together. He holds her like he held her when he had her in his arms, when they danced once. He holds her like spun sugar and he swears to the god he defies he will never harm what lies between his hands. That he will die before he loses what she is. Katherine could have been Elena, but Elena never could have been Katherine. He holds this image like a flame in his mind, a candle he refuses to let the gale extinguish. He holds her for himself and for Stefan, but mostly for himself.

He is selfish at heart and his heart says Elena Gilbert will not be broken.

* * *

Once upon a time, Damon Salvatore lived and laughed and loved without regret or provocation. Once upon a time, he thought he saw for himself a happy ending. Once upon a time, he held the one he loved with hands meant for comfort and not death. Once upon a time, they danced.

She is asleep for hour nine.

_finis._


End file.
